A Rather Eternal State Of Being Dead
by holymischief
Summary: Weeks after Sherlocks return Lestrade calls him up to investigate in a series of murders. All of the victims were found with their necks ripped open and their blood missing. Sherlock doesn't believe in folklore. Moriarty suggests he should expand his horizon. Post-Reichenbach AU in wich Vampire!Moriarty survived and later turns Sherlock; Implied Johnlock and/or Sheriarty
1. Chapter 1

_NOTE: What you're about to read is my first fanfic ever. English isn't my first language so I hope I can improve by sharing my work... I'd be more than glad If you'd leave your thoughts on this. _

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_- 1 -_

"Looks like you've got yourself a case." John glanced at Sherlocks vibrating phone. The consulting detective looked up from his microscope. "Let's find out if it's worth getting up. Would you be so kind and read it out to me?" In a swift movement John shut his Notebook, reached for the phone and, after unlocking it, started to read out loud "Lestrade says that theres been quite a few murders comming in lately. All of them showing the same pattern."

"How many? What pattern?" Sherlock said, not raising his voice, sounding as indifferent as always.

"Three so far and uhm... Well it doesn't say much except that they're very much clueless."

"They're always clueless. Get your coat, John."

And with that he swung from his chair, grabbed his scarf and coat and rushed out the door in a fluid motion. John would never get over how ridiculously majestic Sherlock looked and sounded in every way he moved and spoke. Sherlock was indeed quite a stunning individual - not only for his wit. As John slipped through the closing frontdoor, Sherlock was already getting into a cab, signifying him to hurry up. It's been a while since their last case and gods- since when did John adress Sherlocks cases as 'theirs'? In fact, thinking about it, all he ever did was watch in amazement how Sherlock almost solved all of these cases on his own. Little did his comments ever really help with solving anything. Ever since moving into 221b John kept wondering about why Sherlock chose to live with a flatmate, why he chose to live with him, in particular. He could easily afford living alone, judging by his wardrobe and the absurd amount of money he was sometimes donated. What was so special about John that Sherlock didn't get bored of him? Or maybe he did? The cab ride was silent, except for the monotonous but familiar typing noise. Oh, how he had missed it. The stifling silence of John's phone, not recieving texts wich demanded a pen from across the room, anymore almost drove him mad. He had even missed the simple noise of Sherlock typing, Sherlock playing the Violin, Sherlock staying up for three days to observe the density of fingernails under the influence of vinegar. But when he came back, and John knew that he would, he became much more aware of these simple but familiar habits. Habits of Sherlock that he would never want to miss again.

_..._

Their arriving at the crime scene caused Donavan and Andersons eyes to roll, as usual. But they took a step backwards and neglected to comment on Sherlocks behaviour since their false accusations came to meet the truth when he returned and unrevealed the circumstances of his 'death'. The only thing wich remained a mystery is the disappearence of Moriarty and/or Richard Brook. He simply vanished, much to Johns relief, though. Sherlock never talked about Moriarty, also much to his relief. Somehow, watching Sherlock playing games with him made him feel a very strange kind of jealousy, deep inside. The same kind of jealousy one experiences when being excluded from playing 'Rock-Raper-Scissors' in elementary school for there could only be two players participating. Ripped out of his thoughts by the stiging scent of chlorine, it was only now that he noticed they had entered a natatorium. He gazed at the reflection of the slightly reddish tinted pool, causing beautiful patterns to ripple along the cealing. Sherlock moved across the tiles like a dancer, dramatic, taking turns but observing every little detail. He clasped his hands behind his back and rose an eybrow at the sight a barefeet corpse, wich obscured the scene. "I assume you found her in the pool and then moved her out." It was a statement, not a question. Lestrade turned around "Oh, you're here." He looked surprised. "Yeah, it was a bloody mess - literally. We got her out to have a closer look at-" Sherlock was already kneeling next to her, his eyes flicking from one spot to another. John almost stumbled over a pair of high heels, wich were neatly placed at the edge of the pool. She was young blonde, probably not older than 25. Her white, expensive-looking dress was tinted red with blood and soaking. John couldnt help but notice how shockingly pale she was - even for a corpse. He knelt down next to sherlock. Her lips were a light blue, almost purple and her eyes had lost their natural glance, reducing them to a jaded grey. His gaze shifted to the wound on her neck, wich suspiciously looked like a... a bite mark? Some of the flesh had been torn away and it was a horribly deep and ragged wound, washed clean by the water, but he could definitely spot the outlines of teeth around it. John observed her face and body. "She's been dead for about twelve hours" Sherlock didn't utter a sound let alone a simple reaction. "Cause of death: blodloss."

"How much blood?" Sherlock finally returned to reality.

Lestrade shifted from one foot to another, opened his mouth, closed it again, shook his head and finally said "Thats the thing... There isn't any left."

"It's in the Pool?" John suggested. A brief moment of silence was broken by Sherlock jumping up from his crouching position and switching into lecture mode.

"Take a look around. An adult has approximately a blood volume of 4.7 to 5 liters. Judging by her weight and apperence, the former is more likely. The blood in the pool and on her dress doesn't even make up the one third of it. I would have assumed someone let her bleed dry by positioning her upside down but there are no idications for that whatsoever. She's wearing matching underwear and her legs have been recently shaved - obviously, she had a -fairly sucsessful- date. Find out who she is and fetch me her organizer."

"Fairly sucsessful?" Lestrade looked dazed.

"There are several hickeys on the other side of her neck aswell as the inside of her thighs. The fact that her shoes were taken off before she got thrown into the pool and the oddity of the crime scene make it to obvious... I'm sorry but this is dull. Not worth having gotten up, as it turns out." Yes, it was obvous and dull. Some guy with a neck fetish went serial killer. And yet he whirled around to, maybe out of simple curiosity -he dare not to think out of instinct-, pick up one of the girls shoes. As he turned the shoe around to observe its sole his expression froze. Small but visible there were three letters carved into it:

I O U

He never told John or Lestrade or anyone what it meant. Rather than, like Lestrade was about to mention, think that it were the girls initials, he knew exactly what it meant. He knew exactly what to do next. Lestrades voice began to fade into audible frequenzes again as Sherlock rose out of his trance. "Yes, her Initials, probably. You'll have to work with that for now." he lied and turned to face Lestrade "You said that this was a series? I'll be heading to the mourge then. Alone." he half-lied. John didn't get the chance to protest and he honestly didn't even want to. He added 'Sherlock simply disappearing and wanting to be left alone' to the list of habits he most certainly would'nt miss. Another dinner alone it is, then.

_..._

"So, is this some kind of vampire thing?" Molly stroked her ponytail aside and took a step forward. "What?" He raised his head in confusion. "Don't be ridiculous, Molly."

"I'm not, I just... How can you know?"

"How can I-?" He rolled his eyes and turned around, facing away from the corpse he had just been observing.

"Do I really need to break this down to you, Molly?"

"Then give me another explanation. We don't know what's out there... do we?"

"I have four, so far. And I can't get rid of the feeling that I am constantly repeating myself by telling people to build up theories based upon their facts rather than adapt their facts according to their theories. Having a soft spot for a sparkling, gay vampire doesnt make every blodless corpse a 'vampire victim'" He spat the words in her face and they hit like bullets, forcing her against the wall. Something inside her broke again. Why was he always being so cruel to her? She thought it had changed after the fall, after he had confessed to her that he needed her. In a way, deep inside, she knew that it was only her assistance he required, and not herself. And it hurt.

"Anyways, I'll have to be somewhere." Sherlock left her, unable to respond, stammering and helpless and walked away. But she was used to that.

_..._

It wasnt like he didn't feel bad about himself. He was well aware of the way he treated her but he just coulndt help it. There was no way of holding back his words once his tounge was given the order to form them, they simply came out. He slipped his hand inside his pocket, pulled out his phone and glanced at the time.

11:35 pm

It's been exactly 146 minutes since he left the crime scene. This should be a sufficient amount of time for Moriarty to 'prepare' for their encounter. The message he had left for Sherlock obviated the need for a text, setting a time and date. Sherlock knew exactly where and when to meet him. Moriarty was quite the drama queen, a lover of symbolism too... and a lunatic. It was an all to familiar situation on the rooftop of St. Barts. Only this time, he would be the one waiting. He turned around, facing Londons shillouette, thinking back on the day Moriarty drove him off the edge. The door sqeaked, almost inaudible for Sherlock, and footsteps approached him.

"And they call me lugubrious..." Sherlock, still facing the edge of the rooftop, laughed at the choice of his words. His lips curled into a wide, teethless grin as he turned around in an almost theatrical manner, the coat following his movement, making it even more dramatic. Moriarty pursed his lips "Did you miss me?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Oh come on. Don't be such a party pooper, Sherlock. Do you want me to excuse?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Fine. I'm sorry I made you kill yourself." He raised his hands in surrender, kept them up a while and then changed his expression into a feral grin.

"Why are you here?"

"Excuse me, where exactly does it say that this is your rooftop? It's not like you obtained some sort of ownership just by jumping off of it."

"How did you do it?"

"Excellent question."

"I saw you blow your brains out. I saw it."

"And I did."

His mind raced, trying to connect bits and pieces of information. What did this have to do with the murders? He decided to change the subject.

"So... you switched careers? I didn't know you were into blondes."

"I was rather aiming for your taste... you know, petite blondes."

Sherlock couldn't help laughing out the breath he was holding in.

"He is indeed a very lucky man, you know. Allthough I must admit that I'm a little jealous. I thought we had a special something."

"What, the murders were arranged just to cach my attention?" Allthough he knew the answer, Sherlock kept asking. He wanted Moriarty to spill just a tiny little bit of his secrets.

"Did they? Tell me, Sherlock, where did their blood go? Where did it go?" He aked with a childish curiosity as if he was questioning a dog. "How did I survive my brains being blown out? How did I do it? What is the connection, Sherlock... the connection?"

"I don't believe much in folklore." Sherlocks answer was plain and simple. He was not in the mood to give into what Moriarty was implying.

"Then _learn_ to." It was only now that he realized Moriartys chest had neither been rising nor falling the entire time and in the blink of an eye Sherlock was tackled to the ground, the soft fabric of Moriartys suit brushing his skin. His eyes spread in disbelief as Moriarty rolled up his sleeve and exposed a pair of pointed incisors before ripping his own wrist orpen. Pinned to the ground and unable to move Sherlocks thoughts crashed into eachother, leaving a mess inside his head. The last thing he remembered was blood dripping all over his face and into his mouth, then Moriarty snapped his neck and the world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

_NOTE: Vamp!Sherlock! __**Warning:**__ If you're easily grossed out by blood I would recommend not reading this._

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- 2 -

Everything hurt. Every bone in his body and every inch of his skin ached. Sherlock was unable to hold a thought. It was a mess, everything was a bloody mess. His head pounded and the attempt at opening his eyes ended in even more pain. All he felt was the softness of his familiar bedsheets and the smell of freshley boiled tea and- _wait, what?_ His memory was a blur and he was still not able to get his brain to work again. But as the pounding slowly faded into a more pleasant but still uncomfortable feeling of pressure, he began to realize that is was neither bedsheets, he was lying on, nor the scent of tea, he was smelling. It reeked of death and decay and the cold metal beneath his body was nowhere to be compared to his bedsheets. At least he was still dressed. When he finally did manage to open his eyes, it was only to face pure darkness. Sherlock moaned. But since it reverbed twice as loud back into his ears he figured that he must have been in some kind of box. Being unable to move reassured him. He felt dizzy, and all he wanted was to drift back into that wonderful state of not having to smell, or feel or see anything. It was incredibly hard to focus, especially with the irritating noise of footsteps approaching... _footsteps_?

"Rise and shine, Sherlock." Light flooded the comfortable darkness and it felt as if he was about burst into flames. Out of reflex he covered his eyes with his arms, making him realize the sudden expansion of scope. Now focusing only on his senses, for his mind still didn't work properly, he took in the familiar scent surrounding him. But he wasnt yet able to make out what it was. Carefully he removed his arms and slowly opened his eyes, blinked a few times and - _wow. _As the blur began to clear he experienced in amazement _how clear _and vivid his perception was. This was unusal. Had he been drugged? Then his eyes fell onto Moriarty and reality hit him like a truck.

"_What _have you _done_?!" He winced, surprised by the overwhelming sound of his own voice.

"Remember when I told you I owed you? This is my payment."

Moriarty grinned, his head tilting slightly. The man was clealy even more nuts as Sherlock had assumed. Now that he was slowly starting to regain the ability to think clearly, he reckognized the mourge. He had been sleeping in a storage cell inside the mourge of St. Barts and there even was a fucking tag attached to his toe, with his name written on it. What kind of game was it, that Moriarty was playing?

Instead of stammering half a sentence, Sherlock decided to dart Moriarty a questioning look.

"Oh come on. I told you to expand your horizon. You've already thought about it, haven't you? You just gotta accept to believe it." Moriarty grinned and sharp teeth flashed. It hurt that he was right. Sherlock had in fact considered the posibillity of the existence of vampires. And the possibility of him having become one of them slowly dawned to him as Moriarty spoke further.

"Did the hunger kick in yet?" His high pitched voice made everything sound so harmless, leaving out the ocassional cracks wich revealed his inner psycopath, of course. Moriarty turned around to pick up two bags of blood, wich he had neatly placed on the counter.

"There you go." He threw them onto Sherlocks lap "I've got... stuff to do. Text me if you need anything. Oh - and could you do me a favour and try to not kill anyone? It's a horrible mess to clean up, you know." His lips curled into another wicked smirk and he rushed out the door.

A shudder washed over Sherlock spine. The tension, that had been cloaking the room, vanished with Moriarty. He allowed himself to relax his muscles, letting his head drop to his chest. It was still difficult, to hold on to his drifting thoughts. _What now? _Sherlocks gaze wandered through the room and settled upon the bloodbags. They smiled at him in consent. _It must have been some sort of drug. _What on earth did Moriarty do to him? The previous hours had been a blur. He remembered meeting him on the rooftop, the case he had set up for Sherlock... Lestrade had been there too, and _John- John! _He shuddered in disgust at the thought of what Moriarty might have done to him. Determinded he swung his legs around and got up to his feet. An unpleasant mistake, as it turned out. Sherlock has had trouble with hypotonia before, but not like this. He must have been in that position for hours, probably under the influence of some drug. A prickling sensation washed over his body as finally felt the rush of blood though his head. Taking in a deep breath, he took a step forward. But the soothing sensation of oxygen flooding his bloodstream didn't kick in the way he expected it to. _Hold on. _In shock and realization his hands frantically searched for a pulse. Nothing. _No, no, no, no- Get yourself together Sherlock! This is a dream, wake up. This is a dream, wake up. This is a dream, wake up. _Repeating it like a mantra, he started slapping his face._ Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP! _A muffled, high pitched noise echoed in his head. Another strange sensation, accompanied by nausea, creeped up his body, aching in his veins and ripping at his gums. It tore him apart, making him drop to the floor in pain. He wanted to throw up his insides to make it stop. This was everything but a nightmare, this was real. Racked with pain and out of instinct he whirled around, still kneeling on the floor. His mind shut down at the sight of what was still lying on the metal slide. It called to him, invited him. Mindless as he was he dashed forward and, not even bothering to acknowledge the tube, bit down right into the bag, his newly revealed pair of razor sharp cannies piercing the plastic barrier between him and the soothing taste of heaven. Crimson liquid ran down his throat, easing the stinging pain. It was drained in seconds and Sherlock reached for the second one, a discomforting realization dawning on him. He slowed down, looking at the bloodbag in his hands. _Not a dream. _This time he raised a shaking hand to screw off the top bit. _Okay. _With his sense slowly returning to him, he gulped down the lump that had formed in his throat and guided the tube to his mouth. Closing his eyes, Sherlock sucked at it, waiting for the blood to sooth his pain as it run up the tube. He concentrated on the taste and _my, was it good. _The iron taste was completely covered up by a sweetness, no words could describe. Somehow, if light, love and every positive emotion were to be materialized, Sherlock was certain that it would taste like this. He let himself be enveloped by it. Sucking greedily, until the very last drop had left the bag, he slowly opened his eyes again.

_Well fuck._


	3. Chapter 3

_NOTE: I know that the chapters seem to be getting shorter but don't worry, the next one is already in the making and it wouldn't work if I didn't build up some suspense, would it? ;) Please tell me what you think of it, so far!_

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___- 3 -_

John had been watching crowds of people rushing by for at least half an hour now. The remains of his supper had gotten cold. After Sherlock took off to the mourge, he decided to grab some Chinese. The restaurant was small, but warm and cozy and John had found a single table next to the window to sit at and stare out into the nightlife of London. Bright lights reflected on the glass. He had lost himself in his thoughs completely. Why had Sherlock acted like this? It wasn't unusual for him to leave a crime scene without John, but why would Sherlock even bother to look at the other victims if he wasn't interested in the case in the first place? There was something he didn't want John or Lestrade to know. It was the only explanation for his behaviour.

"I'm sorry, we're closing." A short man with a strong chinese accent greeted him with a smile. John took out his wallet and left an adequate amount of money, including a generous tip, on the tabe. The Chinese bowed down thankfully and kept smiling. John reached for his jacked and walked out the door. Cold air filled his lungs, and the sound of traffic and people talking took over the scene. He braced himself for the inevitable confrontation with Sherlock, when he would get back to 221b, and waved at a cab.

...

The door unlocked and John stepped in. No one had been here since they had left. He flicked the lightswitch and, not expecting an answer, called into the vanishing darkness.

"Sherlock?" Nothing. He flicked it again, there was no point in staying up to wait for him. He was a grown up man after all... A genius. _He wouldn't get himself into trouble, would he?_ John tried to make himself believe. After freeing himself of his jacked, he went straight up to his bedroom.

...

He couldn't sleep. A nightmare had woken him up and now his thoughts wandered in circles until they came back to Sherlock. It was far from midnight, already close to dawn - 5, maybe 6 AM. A quick glance at his arlarm reassured him.

6:12 AM

There was no way he would be able to go back to sleep again but the comforting warmth and sofness of his bed kept him from getting up. One of the perks -the only perk- of suffering from PTSD was being used to the lack of sleep due to nightmares. In his dreams, there was screaming, and blood and- he cut his thougt and sat up. Cars driving by caused rays of light to break through the curtains. Ever since he returned, nothing has felt quite like home... except 221b. It was his harbour, a bastion of calm. Thinking about it, he couldnt describe how grateful he was for meeting Sherlock and moving into 221b. It was more than simply a place to crash and eat. A smile crept upon his face. _No point in trying to fall asleep again. _He arched his back and got up, deciding to start his day early. After his usual morning routine of using the bathroom, getting dressed and setting up a kettle of his favourite tea blend he sat down to blog about their most recent case. John watched the sky shift from black to blue. Thinking back on yesterdays occurrences, he couldnt help but wonder if Sherlock had made it home. John couldn't just simply walk into his room, could he? And Sherlock spent most of his nights on the couch, anyways... _He didn't return. _Discomfort spread in his chest. The thought of loosing his only friend _again _made him feel sick. "No messages" he muttered under his breath as he checked his phone. _Nothing. _Maybe Sherlock had informed Lestrade about what he was up to... Highly unlikely, but It was worth a try.

Did Sherlock let you in on what he's been up to?

He didn't make it back to the flat tonight.

- JW

John ignored the fact of how gay that might have sounded. It wasn't like anyone still believed that they _weren't_ a couple. Tapping his fingers impatiently, he waited for Lestrades response, eventually turning his attention to the blog once more. Half an hour and a blogpost later his phone vibrated.

No, sorry. He's been to the mourge but left around 11:30 pm yesterday.

- GL

Sinking back into his chair he thought that maybe it was for the best to just leave him alone. Maybe he was on the right track, already on to the the killer. Or maybe he had gotten himself into some deep trouble. _He would've at least texted me... _John let out a sigh and started typing.

Where are you? Are you alri-

He backspaced.

Where are you? How's the case going?

- JW

_Send. _

Moments later, a familiar jingle echoed through the room and ripped him out of his thoughs. At the noise of a squeaking door he turned his head to watch a tall and dark figure step in. _Sherlock. _


	4. Chapter 4

_NOTE: __**Warnings:**__ Bloodplay and major character death. Again, if you're easily grossed out by blood, don't read this. _

_There's some implied Johnlock in this chapter, too. (Oh, and sorry for the massive cliffhanger)_

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- 4 -

John darted him a questioning look. A look that said '_Where the hell have you been last night?'_

"I was out, on the hunt." he said, answering John's unspoken question and heading right for his bedroom.

"Wha- Where are you going?"

Sherlock looked exhausted, the dark circles beneath his eyes causing them to appear even more lucid. Even his skin seemed to be a shade paler, more like porcelain than alabaster.

"To get some sleep. It's been a long night for me, John." He ran a hand through his messy curls.

"Aren't you the one, who keeps bugging me about how overrated sleep is? What are you not telling me, Sherlock? Why are you keeping me and Lestrade out of this?"

"I'm not I just- I-" Sherlock had a hard time focusing on his words, distracted by Johns mesmerising heartbeat. _His hearbeat. _So loud and presend, steady and strong. His gaze fell upon Johns neck. He could _feel_, the blood beneath John's skin calling out for him, inviting him. And god the _smell_. John smelt of tea, iron and sweat, traces of aftershave still clouding his natural scent. Sherlocks eyes locked on the spot, he had missed to shave this morning, just on the edge of his jawline, above his pulse point.

"I dropped the case. As I said earlier, it wasn't worth getting up."

Sherlocks response surprised him. _Something was very wrong._

"The killer is still out there!"

"But the game is over." he murmured, turning to face John once more.

"I'm sure the police can handle this on their own."

Sherlock fled to his bedroom, leaving John dumbfounded.

...

_Rest. Sleep. Yes, good. _Primitive thoughts took over his mind. _So tired. _He grasped at his bedsheets, pulling them closer to his face. _So comfortable. _At the sound of a boiling tea kettle his eyes shot open. _John. _Careful, to not cause any noise, he sat up and turned to face the door. Everything he ever wanted was just outside that door. And he could simply take it. His feet tiptoed over the wooden floor, as he cautiously moved forward. He could hear John's steady heartbeat just metres away from him, hear him move from the kitchen to the sitting room. Familiar footsteps. Slowly turning the knob, Sherlock let the door fall open and took a step backwards. John hadn't noticed him yet and was about to sit down, and before Sherlock could realise, what was happening, he had his prey pinned against a wall. A mug shattered on the floor, spilling hot tea over their bare feet. Neither of them minded. Johns eyes spread wide in shock.

"H- H- How did you? Wh- Wha-" He was cut off by Sherlock lips, ghosting over his neck.

"Do you even realise, how hard it is to hold myself back?" He purred into Johns ear, stretching every word.

"I- I don't understand." John was breathing heavily now.

"And did I ever tell you how _amazing_ you smell?"

Unable to respond, John found himself immobilised beneath the force of Sherlocks body.

Slowly, careful, to not let his prey get away, Sherlock bent down to pick up a shard. He pressed his free hand on Johns chest, keeping him in position.

"Let's have some fun, shall we?" Icy blue eyes, almost white, burried behind dark curls met John's as Sherlock moved back up. Dry, pale lips framing a pair of long, razor sharp cannies, formed into a wicked smile. Sherlock placed the sharp edged piece of broken porcelain on Johns neck, his other hand still pinning him down. There was no point in fighting back, he was too strong. John winced, as Sherlock pressed the shard against his jugular vein, slowly but forcefully, waiting for it so pierce the skin. And when it finally did, he applied more pressure, dragging it across the sweaty surface. A breathless cry escaped Johns lips as the shard left behind a deep cut, oozing with blood. He shivered involuntary and at the same time winced in pain when he felt Sherlocks tounge flick over the wound. Not wasting a single drop, he licked and sucked at it. He thought the bagged blood had_ tasted_ like heaven but _my_ was he wrong. This was like_ entering_ heaven. Warm and sweet and thick and completely enveloping him. _More. _Sherlock bit down greedily, tearing at the wound, desperate for more. Tingling sensations crept through John's body, numbing the unbearable pain as his eyes lost focus. _More, more. _There was the sound of even more skin ripping mixed with John's hoarse, almost silent screams and the gulping noise of Sherlock, draining him. Everything shifted into slow motion and his vision started to blur, as he felt the life being sucked out of him. So, this was it then? These were the last breaths he'd ever take. It was nothing like he'd expected death to be. He'd also never expected to die by the hands of Sherlock Holmes. But somehow, in a strange way, it felt right, to die in his arms. In the arms of his dearest friend. He somehow managed so smile at the thought of it and let a single tear roll down his face as he closed his eyes. In the end, Sherlock was the one who kind of saved his life. And, thinking back on everything, the time he had spend with him was the most beautiful time in his life. He had given him a new motive for living, a home and most importantly a friend. Deep inside he somehow even regretted, that they never got the chance to... to- His thoughts wandered off and drifted into a pool of light. _It felt right._

A sudden silence filled the air in 221b. Sherlock only realised, that Johns heart had stopped beating, when there was not a single drop of blood left. He let his limp body drop to the floor in horror. At the sight of what had happened, his bloodstained face froze. _No, no... no. _Feeling dazed, he slowly allowed himself to drop onto his knees. A warmth -_John's warmth_ spread through his body, making his muscles twitch in ecstasy and it made him feel sick. _How... why? _His thoughts spun, as he was trying to compensate what had just happened. He killed him. He had killed John Watson, his flatmate, his companion and his only friend. A lump began to form in his throat as his eyes welled up with tears. He swallowed it, letting out a sob.

"Wow." Sherlock raised his head to meet Moriarty, leaning casually against the wall. He started clapping.

"I didn't expect you to be so... eager. Luckily there was a doctor around." A grin crept over his face.

Sherlock glared at him, his eyes full of agony and rage.

"My, don't be so hard on yourself. This would've happened anyway, someday."

A split second later he was crouching next to Sherlock, purring into his ear.

"Little Johnnyboy never belonged into this world of ours. Even before all of _this_."

He pointed at the bloody mess on John's neck, a deep and ragged wound. Trails of crimson had run down to John's jumper, now stained with blood. With his eyes closed, his expression somehow even seemed peaceful. Sherlock closed his eyes to stop the tears from falling, but it didn't help. He swallowed. Slowly, emphasising every word, Moriarty whispered into his ear.

_ "This is what you are now." _


End file.
